“It is November, the only time the rain makes sense,”...

“It is November, the only time the rain makes sense,” writes
poet Ani Gjika. It has not started raining yet, not today, here in this
November, but the sky is low and grey-white. Last night, after a gauzy pastel
sunset with inviting bands of molten pink, a fat bright moon revealed itself.
But not for long. I went looking for it later, but the clouds had come, and it
was gone. Other things have disappeared. The city mowed the milkweed down along
the river. Here and there, a few remain, and split, and spill. A display so
soft and ecstatic that one reaches the limits of language. At some point, words
are not what best expresses; the moment comes when what’s there to be said
needs be communicated in ways that have nothing to do with sentences. Time
moves. I pull on boots, wrap a scarf halfway up my face. It is November.
Nothing much is making sense.